


First

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joey is Chris's first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First

**Author's Note:**

> lemniskate67 donated the bunny to keep me from going insane. This is another one of my "don't read it at work" fics. For Velma, on her birthday.

You're sure you're in for it when you hear Chris's startled yelp. You hadn't been expecting him back early -- for once you'd all gone out clubbing, but you'd found your evening's entertainment early and Chris looked to be partying for several hours yet, so you hadn't bothered to leave a sock on the hotel room's doorknob, just pushed the guy inside, both of you laughing, and now you struggle up on your elbows and swallow as you see Chris over Martin's broad shoulder.

"I'll--" Chris manages, his face bright red, and he backs out of the room while Martin grins down at you, gives another lazy thrust of his hips and you bite down on a groan.

"Who was that?" he murmurs.

"One of the guys in the group." You pull his face down to yours and kiss him, and he picks up the pace until you've both forgotten about the interruption.

* * *

In typical Chris-fashion, he doesn't say anything about it for a week, but you can see it in his eyes whenever he looks at you. The next time any of you have to breathe is in Munich, and after the day's shows you tackle him in the van and tickle him until he screeches for mercy. Justin can never resist an opportunity to torment Chris, so before long he's wheezing and trapped beneath the both of you. You grin down at him and he glares back, which is better than the disconcerted glances he'd been giving you.

Back in the hotel and he looks warily at you as you follow him into your shared room, as if he's afraid you're going to attack him again, so you flop on your bed and throw a pillow at him. "Dude, quit lookin' at me like that."

"Like what?" he tries, attempting defiance, but then slumps to the other bed and eyes the floor. You feel the tension between you, awkward and heavy, and you hate it, because you and Chris have always had a close and comfortable friendship. More, maybe, you would have wanted, if he was into guys, but he's not and that's cool. You definitely hadn't been planning on him finding out the way he did.

"I'm sorry," you say, sitting up. "Last week, it was -- it was really rude of me and I should have--"

"It's OK," he breathes, fast. "Really, Joe, it's, it's fine. I'm not, like, scandalized or traumatized or, you know, scarred for life or anything."

"Good to know," you offer, and he glances up, a dark eyebrow raised in a sardonic glance. You mutter, "well, I was worried," and he snorts.

"It's just," and his leg is twitching now with nervous energy, "it's just. I -- some warning might have been nice."

"I swear to God, it won't happen again," you say. "I'll put the sock on--"

"It's not that." Thump thump thump goes his leg on the mattress. "That you're gay, Joey, why didn't you tell me?"

Oh. "Oh," you swallow. "It's. It's not really one of those things I tell everyone about, you know? And I'm really -- I mean. I like girls, too. I'm, I guess I'm bi. It's just. Only my parents know, and Janine, and C, and, um, you, now." You realize that you're picking at your jeans and flatten your hands on your thighs. "It's not like. I don't like it getting spread around, especially now, you know, 'cause it would be really bad and -- fuck, you won't tell anyone, will you?" A sudden flare of fear jolts through you as you raise your eyes to him.

Chris smiles a little, reassuringly, though his hands continue to knead his own thighs. "No, I, I won't tell. I mean, it'd be kind of hypocritical, wouldn't it?"

It takes you a moment to process that and then you feel your own mouth tugging up into a smile. "You. You're."

"Yeah." Chris's eyes dart up, meeting yours, and then shift away again. "Yeah, I. I mean, I like girls all right, but. Guys really do it for me."

You're torn between the desire to close the distance between the two of you and throw Chris down on the bed, molding your bodies together, kissing hungry and wet and -- no. Restraint, because there really is no other desire in your brain at the moment and you're having a hard time breathing.

"So. You. Uh." Focus, Fatone! "You ever think about--" One hand jerks upward, indicative, towards your chest and you force it back down, clamped on your thigh.

Chris meets your eyes again -- his own dark, needy, and you nearly swallow your tongue. "Kind of a lot," he mumbles.

You're starting to think that you really need to work through this and so you stand, but instead of heading towards the door you take one big step and pull him to his feet, and before he can do anything but look surprised, you're kissing him, sweet and smooth and he tastes so good. He mewls a little, presses himself to you and oh fuck, he's hard, and you suck on his tongue and work a hand between your bodies to rub him through his khakis.

"Oh, God, Joe," he gasps and pulls back. "No, I--"

"Sorry," you breathe, "sorry," because, no, you want to go slow and savor each moment.

"No, no, it's not that." He wraps his arms around your waist, tips his head up, and his hair falls back from his face. "It's. I've. Never had sex with a guy and so if you don't want to then I'll totally understand because--"

You control your first reaction, which would have been a laugh of disbelief, and put a finger to his lips instead, ending the stream of nervous babble. "It's OK. It's, uh. Kinda sexy, actually."

"Really?" He squints up at you.

"Yeah." You can't stop your smile. "I mean, that is-- you want me to b-be your first?" He nods and buries his crimson face in your shirt, and you rock him against you. "It's a fucking honor, Chris. I'm. I'm really glad you want me."

He smiles against your chest, kisses your shoulder. "Been trying to get up the nerve to ask."

"We should -- I mean -- now?" you manage to ask; he looks up at you again, biting his lip, then nods.

"No time like the present, right?" He tugs you toward the bed, but you're unmoving and he gives you a doubtful look.

"I don't want to just jump your bones, man. Plus, I don't even think I have stuff. We have tomorrow off, we'll go shopping, get dinner, do it right."

Chris inhales a little, but doesn't let go of your hands, and his smile is soft and wry. "You gonna romance me, Fatone?"

You grin at him, feeling your own face heat up. "I've been thinkin' about this for a while, too, you know?"

He pulls you down for another kiss, so of course that's when the door flies open and the others tumble in. You jerk apart and he falls back on the bed, and while Justin starts in talking about the videos they've rented, JC shoots you a suspicious glance. You realize your lips are swollen and your hair mussed, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom. In the mirror, you look like you've been having sex: you're flushed and rumpled, high color on your cheeks. You splash water on your face to try and cool down.

Back in the bedroom, Justin is laying on Chris, who's fending him off easily -- Justin's still-awkward, growing limbs aren't so easily controlled -- and you feel a surge of affection mixed with an odd little jealousy, which you push down because you know perfectly well that Justin is no competition for you. Lance is setting up the VCR, and JC's sprawled on the other bed, his eyes closed already, so you flop on him to wake him up as the FBI warning for the first movie comes up.

Lance crows his success and Chris drags him over onto the bed with Justin, and as you all settle in, Chris glances at you, smile fleeting. It's probably a good thing that you're not on the same bed with him, because you'd be getting in all sorts of trouble way too soon. Plus, you're not quite ready for the others to find out.

* * *

The next day, Lou lets you take a car out to go shopping. Lance goes with you and you confide in him, nervously, sitting in the parking lot at a shopping plaza, about your sexuality and Chris and all of it. You know you'll always remember how cold it is that day, the frost on the windshield, the cracks in the gear shift handle. You wait nervously for his answer, picking at your fingers, but when he engulfs you in a hug you know that you should have known better. You'd only been worried because he was your best friend, after all, and you'd wanted him to know all this stuff first-hand instead of finding out from the others or something. Or the way Chris did.

But he just thumps your back and then says, "so let's go get you ready for your big date" and you smack his shoulder before getting out of the car.

You return with one bag of supplies and two big bags full of food, since you figured the best way to get the others off your back was too feed them. Lance takes one of the bags from the restaurant and tells you he'll get JC and Justin set up in his room, and you give him a grateful shoulder-bump before heading to the room you and Chris are sharing.

Justin and Chris are in there, playing some racecar game on Chris's Playstation, but when you tell Justin that Lance has food for him, Justin drops the controller and practically flies out of the room. Chris sprawls back on the floor and grins up at you. "That was easy."

"Confucious say fifteen-year-old boy easily led by stomach." You set your bags down on the table and start pulling out styrofoam containers, and Chris scrambles to his feet to help. It's not long before you're both digging in, eating in comfortable, companionable silence, making sounds of pure pleasure: the restaurant specializes in American style food, something you don't get a whole lot of lately (aside from McDonald's) so it's a real treat. Chris glances up at you occasionally, his eyes dancing, and you know it was a good choice.

After you're done eating, you toss the other bag on the bed and get up to lock the door. When you turn around, Chris is standing behind you, and your heart thuds a little faster, seeing the suddenly vulnerable look in his eyes. He's barefoot, wearing shorts and a ratty old t-shirt, his hair smooth and straight, falling neatly to frame his eyes. "Joey," he says, and then takes a couple final steps towards you and reaches up, arms coming around your shoulders. You kiss him back, because he's beautiful and you can't not touch him, your hands on his back, pressing him up against you. You fight to keep it light, though, and as the kiss ends you smile down at him, waiting for him to return it. He does, eventually.

"I thought we could watch a movie," you say. "Relax a bit."

His smile quirks up at one side of his mouth. "You got us porn, didn't you?"

You laugh and waggle your eyebrows. "No, but if you want..." When he sticks out his tongue, you nip at it and he shudders a little. "No, no, just a couple of regular movies."

"Don't want to watch movies," he murmurs, his voice silken. "Want you."

"God, Chris." You realize that you're shaking a little.

"Please." He steps back, but only to tug you with him. This time, you go willingly, letting the rest of your plans go by the wayside. There'll be other nights, you hope. You pray.

You lay down with him on one of the narrow beds, tugging back the covers, and you spend a long time kissing him, learning the taste of him, the way his tongue flickers sharp and sweet in your mouth. He likes to touch you, which is good because you like it when he touches you; his hands wander, squeezing your ass then sliding up under your shirt, and you fumble with the buttons before giving up and yanking it over your head, then stripping his t-shirt from him. The lights are still on, and you contemplate getting up to turn them off but that would involve having to leave the bed, and besides, you like looking at him. You like being able to see him.

"Stop," he says suddenly, and you realize you've been staring at him. He sounds uncomfortable.

"Chris, what--" You raise your eyes from your perusal of his chest, his torso, the clean lines of his compact abdomen, and see the wonder in his own gaze. "You don't want me to look at you?"

"I'm not." He touches your arm, the solid bunched muscle. "Nothing to look at. Not like you."

It's part astonishment and part determination that drives you then, as you lay claim to his body with kisses, worshiping licks, nibbles, along heated skin, from the curve of his jaw to the smooth length of a collarbone and then down his chest; you delight in the reaction when you run your tongue roughly over a stiff nipple, the way he moans and clutches at your hair. "Beautiful," you whisper, and before he has the chance to react you slide your hand into his pants and feel the impossible hardness of his erection through cotton boxer-briefs. He gives a low, heart-rending groan.

"Gonna fuckin' kill me, Joe," he gasps at one point, when you've got his shorts open and worked down over his hips, and you laugh softly before nuzzling over the distended front of his underwear, the promising bulge.

He tastes delicious there, too, thick and hot in your mouth with just a hint of bitter saltiness. He fits well in your mouth; you like the way he feels there, and you close your eyes and let your head move in a steady rhythm, not minding his hands in your hair, kind of liking the way he's gripping and relaxing, gripping and relaxing, and when you caress his balls with the hand that isn't holding you up, he gives a yelp and tugs, which is all the warning you get before he comes.

Afterwards, he pulls at you until you slither up to lay next to him, and he kisses you almost shyly, tongue darting out to taste himself on your lips. His eyes flare, dark with heat, and though you want to take things slow you can't help but groan and kiss him hard, grinding your neglected erection into his thigh.

"Fuckin' hot, Joe," he says and puts a hand on your cock. You jump a little but he rubs, rubs confidently and his hand is perfect, even through layers of denim and cotton. Your head's spinning a little when he breathes into your ear, "C'mon, baby, fuck me. What are you waiting for?"

"You-- fuck," you gasp, because he's unbuttoning your jeans and shoving his hand inside, and you push into the caress in spite of yourself. "All right," and you have to push his eager hand back because you're two seconds from exploding, "all right, give me a second, let me--"

He laughs and you roll away and grab at the bag that's fallen to the floor, spilling condoms and lube onto the mattress between you, and then you push up enough to shove your jeans and boxer-briefs off. He inhales suddenly and you look back at him, realizing, oh shit, first time he's seen a naked guy. But then he looks up at you and kisses you again, fingers threading into your hair, and his other hand is on your waist pulling you to him. Christ, he's so hot, so lithe and he feels fucking perfect underneath you, like he was made for you, for this.

"Roll, roll over, on your stomach," you manage to tell him as you find the lube again where it's fallen into the dip in the mattress next to his hip. He does, obedient, but his eyes flash at you and you have to close your eyes, think about baseball, think about -- no, you hate baseball, think about the dance steps for "I Want You Back", there, OK, the threshold is easing back again. You nudge his knees apart and settle between them, and this is almost as bad because his ass is a fucking thing of beauty, his back is gorgeous, and his hands are flexing and gripping the pillows and you could die happy just with this vision in your eyes. You draw breath again, smelling him, the scent of sex -- you're not going to make it. You lean back, tip your head back, count to ten.

"Joey," he gasps. "Come on."

Oh, God, he thinks you're doing this on purpose. "Sorry," you whisper, your throat so raw you can barely do anything else. "Sorry. I just. Fuck, you're so fucking hot."

"So fuck my fucking hot body already," he demands, wriggling. You're tempted to smack him but you have a feeling he'd enjoy that. You're also pretty sure you would, too. You manage to lube up your shaking fingers, and that helps calm you down, focuses you. You let your fingers trail down between his buttocks, into the cleft of his ass, and he shudders at that, pushes his ass back when your wet fingers circle the tight muscle, teasing gently before exerting a firmer pressure with the index. And more, because he's panting now; you breathe, "Ready?" and he just nods, whimpers softly, and you slide the finger in deep.

God, he's so fucking tight, the intense heat of his body gripping your finger and drawing it in, and his sigh is something like pain and ecstasy all in one. "OK?" you manage to say.

"More than OK, I mean, it fuckin' hurts, but I want more, I fuckin' need," he manages, and he pushes back so that you have no choice but to push in, deeper, until your finger is buried to the knuckle. You're remembering, or trying to, how this was done for you, with a well-meaning but inexperienced fellow senior, and how it was better when the movement was constant, so you keep yourself steady, breathing in and out in time with the strokes of your finger. It's fucking mind-blowing to watch it disappear into his body, and when the powerful muscle ripples around it, you have to stop and gasp. Pretty soon he's begging you for another, so you let your middle finger join the first and this rhythm is easy, now, his body starting to loosen up gorgeously. You're trying to find his prostate, knowing the effect it'll have, and when your fingers crook and rub right over that spot--

"Holy Jesus fuck!" he yelps and arches up so hard you think he's going to strain something. "Jesus! Joey! Fuckin' do that again!"

You can't help but laugh but you comply, because it's way too hot to watch him, to hear the rawness of his voice. It's not long at all before you've got a third finger in him, and your hand is moving easily, now, steady, the other one on your own cock, you've hardly even noticed, but when he spasms around your fingers again you're suddenly reminded of the reason for all of this, even though you could do this to him all day.

"Ready?" you croak, dry-mouthed.

"Jesus, fuckin' come on, Fatone, I'm gonna kick your ass if you don't," he swears. You laugh a little, again, withdrawing your fingers and finding a condom out of the box, tearing open the foil and rolling it on; the tension of it squeezes your cock, fresh sensation making you hiss. All it would take, you think, would be one touch and you'd explode.

But you hold yourself back as you smear more lube on yourself, too much is never enough, especially not now, and then you lean forward, knees between his, one hand supporting your body as the other holds your cock to guide you. You're watching yourself, carefully pressing the head between his buttocks, and the muscle gives as you push forward; you're about to ask again, make sure he's ready, but he groans, "Come fucking on!" and you push forward on a laugh.

"Impatient asshole," you mutter, and hear him laugh, strained, into the pillow.

It's a long, slow slide, carefully controlled, and you keep it steady, fully aware of how it must be stinging him, even though he's groaning too; you remember that, how it hurt and felt so fucking good at the same time, and how you hadn't thought that could be possible. And then you're in him, your cock buried in his body, and he wriggles back against you as if making sure you can't go any further.

"How are you?" you manage to ask.

He makes a weird sound, a laugh and a grumble all at once. "My ass is on fire," he says, but then he mewls when you slide back a bit and then push in again. "Shit! Do that again, fucking do that again."

So you do, because you can't do anything else right now, but you keep it slow so that you don't explode. Not that you're afraid you might anyway, because he's not only so tight it absolutely aches but he's moving beneath you, rocking back for every stroke, arching and moaning and absolutely the embodiment of eroticism.

"Not gonna be long," you mutter when he starts rolling up insistently, forcing you into a faster pace, and your hands make fists in the sheets.

"Don't care," he gasps. "Jesus, Joey, feel so fucking good, you don't even fucking know--" and he slams his hips back, buttocks pressing into your groin.

"Come on." Managing to stop for a second, you tug at his hips until he gets himself up onto his knees, hands before him, and his back is gleaming with sweat now, as you're pretty sure yours is too. This is almost too much again, but you rein it in once more, barely, sliding up onto your own knees and your hands on his hips hold him in place. This is even better, yeah, because now you have a full range of motion and it's easy, so easy, to pump into him, your thrusts steady and quick now, and when you twist and flurry faster, he gives a yell. You realize dimly that the guys are probably going to have a clue now, but you can't bring yourself to care.

You reach around and find the renewed stiffness of his dick, work it in your hand, trying to keep in time with your thrusts. There aren't words for how good he feels beneath you, not even on your best of days, and now with all your blood in your cock you're amazed you're coherent enough to gasp out his name. He gives a ragged shout, his body tensing against yours, and that's all it takes, the last inducement you need, and your orgasm shoots through you with the force of a hurricane.

You're aware dimly of your head pounding, the room spinning around you, but it takes a couple of moments before you can recollect everything. By then Chris has collapsed to the bed beneath you, and you do likewise, moving to the side a little so you're not flat out on top of him. He heaves in several deep breaths, face buried in the pillow, before he twists a little, rolling so that he's facing you, and you let your arms come limply around him.

"Thank you," he finally whispers. You press your forehead to his, feeling an overwhelming sense of amazement.

"You don't have to thank me. It's. Jesus. I should be thanking you."

He smiles a little and tips his head so he can kiss you, soft and lazy. You're not sure how long you lay there, but finally feeling seeps back into your legs and you kiss the tip of his nose, then slide back and get to your feet. "Be right back." He gives you a sleepy smile, and you stumble into the bathroom, disposing of the condom and cleaning yourself off; then you return to the bedroom and pull back the covers on the other bed.

"Don't want to move," he protests, but he gets up when you pull on his hands and you wipe his stomach off with the washcloth you brought back, tending gently between his legs before letting him collapse into the clean bed. He tugs you down after him, so you settle in once the washcloth has been tossed into a corner, sliding behind him and setting your arms around his waist.

He lets out a contented sigh, heavy with a pleasant exhaustion that you definitely share, and you kiss his shoulder; you can almost feel him smile.

"So," he murmurs. "This mean we're boyfriends?"

You hide your smile in his hair. "Um, I. I wouldn't mind."

"Good," he breathes. "Me, either."


End file.
